


Crossing Roads

by almanera4, Tarpeia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Catharsis, Community: grindeldore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Fix-It, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentor Albus Dumbledore, POV Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26409394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia
Summary: In the realm between life and death, one hero meets another. The chapter "King’s Cross" from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”, rewritten from the grindeldore perspective.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	Crossing Roads

Swirling light danced behind his eyelids. He felt still, serene; the sensation could be compared to awaking from a distressing dream to a peaceful morning. No trace remained of the faintness in his limbs, the pounding of his blood, the heartache: like a distant memory, his fear and sorrow had been washed away. He lay pressed against a solid surface, and silence enveloped him.

Harry opened his eyes. What he saw was mist—so clear, so luminous, it could have been spun from light. He was wearing no clothes, and his glasses were gone, though it did not disturb him: as he rose to his feet, his vision appeared sharper than ever before. The wisps of fog were shifting, gaining shape. In every direction, he could discern the contours of a hall filled with sunlight. It was wider than any room he knew, airy and pristine with a domed glass ceiling. The misty vapour parted where he glanced, as if responding to his thoughts, and then something else emerged from the silence: the sound of flapping, of a tiny creature’s struggle, and a whimper.

There was a quality to this disturbance that caused Harry to draw back. He suddenly found himself wishing he were dressed, and no sooner had the idea occurred to him that he spotted robes folded by his side, waiting to be pulled on. He did so, alert, before advancing. A plain bench he had not noticed until now caught his eye, and he instinctively knew it to be the source of the noise. But what he glimpsed under the seat… he flinched at the grotesque sight; he could not help it. The creature was small, malformed, wounded and flayed in appearance—the size and the shape of a child, yet more monstrous than any being alive. For all its helplessness and pain, it inspired a feeling of revulsion, of fright even. He halted by the seat, torn between pity and wariness.

"Harry."

He spun around. While he had instantly recognised the gentle voice, he could not believe it—not until Albus Dumbledore approached, cheerful, unscathed, his eyes shining with emotion, his midnight blue robes flowing around him.

For a moment, Harry could not speak. A sense of solace coursed through him, as did joy, relief, familiarity, and the myriad of unanswered questions in his mind.

"Sir,” he managed at last, “what exactly is this thing?"

Dumbledore gave the creature a sober look. "It is the remnant of a strayed and mutilated spirit, the last fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul. It can no longer cause harm, but I fear it cannot be saved either." He laid a soothing hand on Harry's shoulder. "Don’t be afraid of it. Let us walk, my dearest boy."

Allowing himself to be led away towards the centre of the sunlit hall, Harry frowned. If the wounded being was a piece of Voldemort's soul, would it mean…

"Where are we, sir?"

"This place has many names," the old wizard replied musingly. With every step they took, the fog receded to reveal arched passageways and rows of seats. "Some call it the In-between. It takes a different form for all people, depending on their past, their values, and the key moments in their lives. Which place does it remind you of?"

Harry thought about it.

"I believe… it might be King's Cross."

Only, it was much cleaner and deserted, if pervaded with mist. Something about it did not quite make sense.

"But sir, if it’s different for all of us, how come you are here?" he pressed on.

Did this mean he was dead? He had just recalled it was the case for Dumbledore. The fact that they were talking here could only mean he had died as well. And what of the Horcrux: could it hear them, see them even? Reluctant to express his alarm, he turned around, and the mist solidified before his eyes, as if it could read his mind and meant to grant the two wizards privacy.

Dumbledore must also have sensed his worry, for he gave Harry’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I can come here because I have already died and crossed to the other side. This is a mere 'antechamber' if you will—a passage between the realms. It is where Fawkes appears on his Burning Days. Before his rebirth, we are briefly reunited." He smiled. "You are no more dead than Fawkes ever was, Harry."

"But I am," the boy objected. "I let Voldemort kill me."

"He tried, yet all he succeeded in destroying was a piece of his own soul: the piece that had latched itself onto you the night he had failed to kill you for the first time. Your soul is now free and entirely your own, Harry. Once more, something prevented you from dying. Old, potent, unparalleled magic."

"My mum's sacrifice." Melancholy was creeping upon Harry before he could have braced himself. He took a deep breath. "I still don't understand. How is it possible? I accepted the Killing Curse, I… my mum's protection couldn’t save me this time. And I thought… you _wanted_ me to die."

The last statement came out as an accusation, though he had not intended it this way. The images gleaned in the Pensieve, the memories Snape had imparted to him, flooded his vision. Dumbledore had revealed the truth to Snape, had he not?

This confusion was what promptly gave way to a flare of annoyance.

"Explain," Harry demanded.

They had reached a pair of seats, and wordlessly, Dumbledore invited him to sit down. He settled in the other seat before fixing the boy with an earnest gaze.

"There is so much I would like to tell you, and so much I ought to beg your forgiveness for. I will start by saying this, Harry: I never wished or planned for you to die. Professor Snape held only one piece of the puzzle. No one was to know you had a tool in your possession that would ensure your survival. Two of them, in fact: the first safeguard was the blood Lord Voldemort had taken from you while recovering his body—by absorbing your mother’s magical protection, he as good as tethered you to his own existence, making it impossible for you to be killed while he lived. The second one was the Deathly Hallows."

"The Deathly Hallows," Harry echoed, his brows creased. "What do they have to do with me? I didn't use them to escape. How could I have?"

It was difficult to take everything in. A lifetime ago, it seemed, the spirits of his parents, Sirius and Lupin had emerged at the third turn of the Stone, and even they had encouraged him to go forth and accept the Killing Curse, to die so that the others could continue fighting. The Cloak could not have saved him either. And as for the Elder Wand… that one belonged to Voldemort because Voldemort had got there first.

"I once told you no spell can bring back the dead," Dumbledore admitted quietly. "This is only half-true. No spell can bring back the dead exactly as they were in life. This magic—very Dark in nature—requires terrible sacrifice, and it always entails unwelcome effects. With a single exception." He glanced into the misty distance. "The Tale of the Three Brothers may be a legend, but as you already know, it is rooted in history. The Peverell brothers existed. Without a doubt, they were exceedingly dangerous Dark wizards, whose experiments resulted in unique and sinister objects. If one reunites all three Hallows, one becomes the Master of Death, meaning that even if killed, one can come back to life exactly as one was. The one condition, the price to pay, is to willingly submit to death when it strikes. It was their ultimate jibe.” The blue eyes sought out the green ones, their expression one of warm admiration. “This explains why the numerous wizards who coveted the Hallows left empty-handed: they were selfish in their endeavour. The kind of wizard who longs for immortality is not one who will willingly embrace death. You alone have been worthy to reunite the Hallows since their creation. All three of them, Harry, for it is not Voldemort who gained the Elder Wand’s allegiance, but you."

The more Harry listened, the more logical this odd reasoning sounded. Except… did it? So he was the Master of Death because he had permitted himself to be killed? The idea rendered him speechless.

"Mr Ollivander said… he said… it is the wand that chooses the wizard. And the Elder Wand didn't choose him? It chose _me_? Why, professor? I never fought for it. Voldemort, he—" Harry halted, regretting his rash words. It was too late to stay silent now. "He disturbed your tomb, sir."

"He cannot hurt me." Dumbledore pressed the boy’s hand in reassurance. "The Elder Wand is infamous for being won over with violence, or at least the defeat of its owner. My plan—precarious beyond belief, as I would find out—was to pass it onto you. If we’d had more time, I would have found a way to let you disarm me. In the end, Draco did, and through him, the Wand’s ownership came to you. It was due entirely to your courage and presence of spirit."

Harry stared at him. If this was true, everything had been the result of pure chance, which was staggering. It was pure chance that had led him to utter Voldemort's name in the tent, resulting in their capture. Pure chance had caused the Snatchers to recognise him and bring the group to Malfoy Manor. By pure chance, Dobby's help had bought them the time to escape, and by pure chance alone had he wrenched the wands out of Draco Malfoy's fists.

They could have died. Dobby did, sacrificing himself to save them.

It was clear to Harry that something about his reaction frightened the headmaster, made him feel ashamed. But the question had to be asked, and not only for Dobby’s sake. Voldemort himself had killed Snape in the hopes of harnessing the full power of that terrible wand.

"For how long have you known, sir? Did you plan for all of this to happen?" He paused. "This is why you gave me the Stone, isn’t it?"

Unable, it seemed, to meet the boy’s eye, Dumbledore contemplated the nearby archway before nodding gravely. His face had the same worn out, strained aspect to it as it had acquired in the last years of his life. Still, Harry could have sworn there was a difference now. He struggled to put his finger on the exact change until the penetrating blue eyes came to rest on him once again, and the answer sprang to his mind: beneath his elderly appearance, this Dumbledore was ageless.

The gentle voice was speaking again; regret and self-disgust suffused it like never before.

"I am very guilty before you, Harry. Many things have happened that I never meant to cause, yet they happened because of my actions. In my pursuit of justice, I lost my sense of control, of boundaries. I became as ruthless as those I opposed. It should not have been your war to fight."

Harry frowned, nonplussed. This was not what he had expected to hear.

"What are you talking about, sir? Voldemort chose me—my family—because of that Prophecy. There isn’t anything you could have done about it. You didn't know about Wormtail—he is the one who betrayed them.”

“This may be true; however, I should have known—I ought to have been more cautious in supervising the Order of the Phoenix. It goes back much earlier in time, long before the Prophecy was made.” Dumbledore heaved a sigh. “I believe you have met my brother, Aberforth.”

Harry nodded; his voice softened subconsciously.

"He told me about Grindelwald. You couldn’t have known, professor."

This, for some reason, elicited a smile, albeit a doleful one.

“Aberforth has a good heart, even if I could never touch it. The tragic events of our youth broke him so severely that he learned to believe a particular version of the past, one that was easiest to live with. He is far from alone in his belief that Gellert Grindelwald was a murderous Dark Lord, second only to Voldemort. In order to explain my actions from the last years, I have to start from the beginning.”

For an instant, he was lost in reminiscence. “Gellert came to Godric’s Hollow on the day of my mother’s funeral. I chanced upon him at his arrival, and we took interest to each other. I had never met anyone like him, and as we quickly discovered, we had much in common. You know what happened to my family, Harry. Our household had always been impoverished, but after what befell my sister, it was quite torn apart. Ariana, the sweetest girl one could have imagined, was afflicted with a Dark parasitical force that placed her life in danger. Any strong emotion could set her magic loose and claim her life. It claimed our mother’s life. Our father met his end in Azkaban after taking out his wrath on the Muggle boys who had tormented Ariana. You see, Gellert’s family had suffered a similar fate: his father had passed away in prison after using magic to protect himself from Muggles, and his mother had died from despair. This injustice prompted Gellert to loathe the old laws on wizards’ secrecy. He became determined to create a society where wizards would not be punished for using magic while both wizards and Muggles would bear responsibility for any harm they inflicted on each other. This way, no one would have to relive what our families had gone through. I admired and embraced his ideas; even more so, I admired him as a person. He became everything to me. I would have given my life for him, and he would have done the same.”

If Harry had not heard this from Dumbledore’s own lips, he would never have believed it. This contradicted everything he had found out about the wizard his headmaster had allegedly shared a dark past with. For months and months, Hermione had urged Harry to let nothing tarnish his memories of Professor Dumbledore, to not question the trust and respect between them. Whatever secrets there were buried in the past, Harry had chosen to remain loyal. And now...

"But he used the Cruciatus Curse on your brother," Harry reminded him coolly. He had never forgotten the deep and raw pain he had glimpsed in Aberforth Dumbledore's eyes.

“He did. It saved my life.” The older wizard shook his head in sorrow. “My brother… he was hostile towards Gellert from the start. It could be the fact that Gellert was, without a doubt, a Dark wizard; it could also be due to his instinct for protecting us and his fear of losing what remained of our family. To my fury, he strived to keep us apart no matter how friendly Gellert was, how affectionately he treated Ariana—and he genuinely wished to help her. All of this did nothing except render me more secretive: a trait that would prove, times and again, to be my most unforgivable fault. It goes without saying that I intended for my siblings to be well-cared for once I was gone: Aberforth, I thought, would go back to Hogwarts, and Ariana would stay with our neighbours, who had been kind enough to offer help. The Potters, your family.” Dumbledore smiled at Harry, though it was not without sadness. “It never came this far. When my brother heard of our plans, he lashed out and attacked me with a strangling spell. I was unarmed. In his juvenile rage, he most likely didn’t know what he was doing, nor do I believe he wished to seriously harm me. But Gellert witnessed it all, and he lost his temper. While I do not justify what he did, I’m aware of the protective urges that take hold of us when we witness someone we deeply care about being hurt.” He paused heavily. “The Curse that killed Ariana… Aberforth released it. It was aimed at Gellert. He and I both deflected it, and it hit my sister. It had not even occurred to me to secure the door…”

“Your brother—you don’t mean to say…“ Harry swallowed, profoundly shocked. “But Grindelwald—he—I mean—“

The flayed creature whimpered behind them, distracting his train of thought. It was important to understand what it was that bothered him so. Those months spent in the cold tent, hiding, running, suffering, almost losing Ron… Then it hit him.

_The Greater Good._

Was Dumbledore evil? Was he, in any way, better than Voldemort? He had to be. Hallows, not Horcruxes. Still.

“He wanted to rule over Muggles,” Harry asserted. The letter he had come across in Rita Skeeter’s book was as good as imprinted in his memory. “Grindelwald did. And you did too, didn’t you?”

There was no hesitation in Dumbledore’s calm answer.

“Never. I know it’s what they accused Gellert of, but his goal was to create a harmonious and transparent system that united wizards and Muggles alike. His vision left no room for elitism or corruption, and ruling was never the point. As for me, all I aspired to do was surround him with care and support.”

“You—“

Harry was not even certain what he was going to say. Dumbledore was speaking of Gellert Grindelwald as of someone close, someone who had been… _good_. Could it be? It made no sense, but Dumbledore had no reason to lie. Besides, Harry could tell that here, of all the places, there could be no question of sharing half-truths. Perhaps Dumbledore was mistaken. Had Grindelwald turned Dark and betrayed his companion? Hermione had said people could change, and in the end, Hermione was always right. Despite all, Harry wanted to hear the rest of the story. Not only to understand its connection to himself and Voldemort, but simply to know.

“He killed many people later on,” he pointed out, recalling the old photograph of the merry-faced thief. “And you duelled him, and defeated him.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes, as though the memory of those events still brought him pain.

“It’s true. When Ariana lay dead, when I saw what we had done… I asked Gellert to flee, to save himself. It wasn’t his fault; I would not have him blamed. I can barely remember what followed in the next months. Stricken with grief, Aberforth resumed his studies. Gellert, meanwhile, tried to go forward and put his plan into action, but he was alone and heartbroken. Over time, he convinced himself Ariana’s death was his doing and that I would always loathe him for it; he was terrified I would come after him to exact revenge. So he concealed himself from me for many years. Not only that: he also subjected himself to a Dark spell that numbed his feelings and emotions, hoping this would make it hurt less. Eventually, his charisma and ideas drew followers to him. But what one must understand, Harry, is that all allies are individuals with their own goals and motivations—it is no different for the Death Eaters. Gellert put his trust in pure-blood supremacists, and they attempted what Voldemort would later make his mission: creating a pure-blood world with Muggles at their feet. Those people are responsible for most of the carnage associated with Gellert’s name. They destroyed his life’s work and then abandoned him.”

After a brief silence, he brought himself to continue.

“The Ministry kept pressuring me into fighting him. I delayed, knowing, in my heart, Gellert was guiltless. At last, the situation became untenable, and I had reason to fear his followers would be the end of him. I found him with the help of the Deluminator. Words cannot describe the emotion of that single, precious moment. After decades of separation, we were together again. He was more magnificent than ever, yet desperate, almost broken. When I begged him to save himself again, he refused, conscious it might bring about more bloodshed. He asked me to kill him instead. I could not do it, Harry. I could never have hurt him. Ironically, it would have been the merciful thing to do. Once our duel was over—a show of a duel, in truth—he was dragged away, tried and sentenced to a lifetime at Nurmengard. Chained to a wall, alone in the dark, silenced and immobilised with magic.”

His grief was tangible, and Harry watched him, brimming with sympathy. If this was what had happened, the common knowledge was a lie. It would mean Dumbledore had lost Gellert Grindelwald in much the same way as Harry had lost Sirius. The prejudice, the misunderstandings and the inhumane traditions of the wizarding world ruined lives and sowed tragedy.

“It wasn’t your fault, professor,” he said softly. “You couldn’t have known. It just… happened this way.”

He felt a grateful squeeze on his hand.

“You are very kind, Harry. But it is not all the truth yet. I was about to face the darkest time of my life. For twenty-five years, I chased the Ministry officials from multiple countries, asking them to grant Gellert more humane prison conditions. His state was deteriorating with my every visit, and no one was interested in helping him. It did not take long for me to start loathing them with a passion—almost as much as I hated the radical pure-bloods who had caused Gellert’s downfall. When the breaking point came, it was insidious, and I welcomed it.”

The old wizard’s fingers tensed.

“It liberated something Dark inside me. I vowed to topple the Ministry along with the old pure-blood Houses; I swore to break the entire rotten, cruel system. What made it possible was Lord Voldemort’s rise to power.” A slight tremor entered his voice. “At one point, the Minister for Magic promised to fulfil my request in exchange for my help. Gellert’s conditions finally improved; he got better, and we treasured every minute we spent together until the end.” He turned towards Harry, his face pale. “What I am trying to say is that it never was my intention to hurt the innocent. Nevertheless, my schemes resulted in chaos and suffering. There may have been a time when Lord Voldemort could be stopped. I did not stop him then because it was my only chance of saving the person I most cared about. Afterwards, it became obvious I had underestimated Voldemort—and overestimated my own control over the events.”

“You are saying… you knew,” Harry concluded through numb lips. “You knew and let it all happen.”

“I suspected the depths of his Darkness and ambition, but I did not divine how far-reaching the consequences would be. How everything would crumble in my hands; how incapable I would be of keeping the Order safe; how many lives would be lost.”

Doubt was rising to the surface yet again, and with it, every spark of resentment and every twinge of frustration that had festered in his mind during his precarious Horcrux hunt. Harry had to ask.

“And how did I fit into all this, professor? Did you leave defeating Voldemort to me because I had been marked anyway? Or did it just play out this way? Did you ever care?”

His voice had turned sharp, steely. The headmaster did not look surprised; he seemed to feel he deserved no less.

“I always cared,” he replied quietly. “Once Voldemort marked you, there was no going back to the life you used to have. So Gellert and I devised a plan to protect you. He was the one who conceived the idea of reuniting the Deathly Hallows in your hands so that you would survive while Voldemort would be finished.”

“And what did _he_ want with the Hallows?!” Harry could not subdue his anger. Listening to these confessions made him feel oddly betrayed, as though he had been insignificant, a pawn in someone else’s game of chess. “If he was so good and clever, why seek immortality? Isn’t it what Voldemort was doing?”

He whipped about to glance at the mutilated creature. How different was it after all? Was this the true reason Dumbledore had borrowed his father’s Cloak—to keep it and join it to the other Hallows? To prevent Harry from straying off the path that had been assigned to him?

“Survival is what Gellert was after—never immortality,” Dumbledore explained placidly. “Back in those days, he was on the run. Another student, a rival of his, had accidentally died in a duel against him, and the boy’s family was set on revenge. If it hadn’t been for this danger, coupled with his flight from school and subsequent expulsion, Gellert’s interest in the Hallows would forever have remained purely academic. We spent several weeks researching the topic and succeeded in locating the Stone; we even deduced your family owned the Cloak, Harry. But we never took either. The foolishness of the entire enterprise had settled in by then, and we knew this was not the answer to the trouble at hand. So later on, Gellert only acquired the Elder Wand, which he believed to be beneficial for his goal. He entrusted it to me after our duel.”

“And you had to entrust it to me in turn,” Harry added. “Only, it didn’t work out. Not immediately.”

This, he already knew. His flash of anger was dissipating as swiftly as it had appeared: perhaps it was Dumbledore’s soothing manner of speaking, or maybe something else entirely.

“But we failed, professor,” he stated. “Voldemort still has a Horcrux left, Nagini. I couldn’t kill it.”

“You didn’t fail. On the contrary, you’ve done more, much more than anyone had the right to ask of you.” Dumbledore’s hand descended on the boy’s arm. “Listen to me, Harry. This war is not your doing, and it certainly is not your fault. You are not responsible for other wizards’ mistakes or bound to serve their causes. You have the right to live: simply, to live. For yourself. There is a trait you and Gellert have in common: he, too, bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, as if fixing the errors of our society were his duty alone. Don’t let this burden crush you.”

“But… I thought you wanted me to continue,” Harry objected, astonished. “Isn’t this what you have been preparing me for?”

“No. I trained you and transmitted the Hallows to you so that you would survive all the dangers. I guided you, yes: it was absolutely necessary. But it shouldn’t have been your life’s mission. All these events had been brewing for decades.” Dumbledore’s benign tone was firmer now. “I believe Voldemort’s end is near. Nagini is his last link to immortality, which anyone can sever. You are free, Harry—you don’t owe anything to anyone. I must only warn you of one danger: even with Voldemort gone, you will find yourself surrounded by those who will attempt to benefit from your fame and use your bravery to their advantage. Once it starts, it will be a never-ending cycle. Stay on your guard. You deserve happiness, and freedom, and love.”

It felt surreal. Harry gazed back at him. This, he was beginning to realise, was what he had always wished for: reassurance and firm knowledge that Dumbledore cared. Now he knew. He had been right to trust his headmaster, as had been Hermione. Despite having put them through such a demanding test, Dumbledore truly cared. What was more, Harry felt he had glimpsed the _real_ Dumbledore—the person behind the legend.

“Sir… there is something I still don’t understand,” he said slowly. “If everything you’ve told me is true… it doesn’t add up. You say Gellert Grindelwald wanted to create a very different world from Voldemort’s tyranny. But I saw a letter, written in your handwriting and signed by you, in which you agreed Muggles should be conquered for their own good. You even said any necessary violence would be _for the_ _Greater Good._ How can such a thing be good?”

Perhaps he was pushing it, but it was essential that his doubts be cleared once and for all. He needed to be sure the man he had chosen to believe in was worthy of his respect.

Dumbledore blinked, genuinely taken aback. “If I remember correctly, I exchanged but a couple of notes with Gellert all summer, to clarify the time and place of our outings. Putting our political ideas on parchment would have been unsafe—Bathilda Bagshot disapproved of such ‘nonsense’. Why risk her temper when we could discuss everything in person?”

“So you didn’t want to rule over Muggles?” Harry pressed on, more relieved than he could admit.

The old wizard chuckled good-naturedly. “No, Harry, neither of us entertained the slightest desire for dominating the world. Our plan was more than ambitious enough—though with the right approach and connections, I still believe it would have been possible to abolish the Statute of Secrecy and replace it with a different system. But this in itself would have entailed a lifetime of hard work and endless obstacles. At the turn of the century, the world was already interconnected, and wizarding governments clung to their old ways. No rational wizard could have dreamed of ruling over Muggles, not even Voldemort. Don’t tell me: did you find this alleged letter of mine in a newspaper edition from the forties? Many lies were printed after Gellert’s defeat.”

“It appeared in Rita Skeeter’s book.” Harry’s cheeks coloured with mortification. “She wrote a biography of you. I should have known it was a lie—Hermione told me as much. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Dumbledore gave him a reassuring smile. “More likely than not, Rita Skeeter—bless her—used some of those old articles for inspiration. If she was brave enough to come and interrogate Bathilda, she must have wasted her trip. Even in her old age, Bathilda was proud and imposing.”

The boy bit his lip. “I… am not sure, professor. I think… You see, Hermione and I went to Godric’s Hollow. We convinced ourselves we would find the Sword there. It was my idea, really—I wanted to visit my parents’ graves. It turned out to be a trap set by Voldemort. I’m sorry, sir; I’m afraid Bathilda Bagshot… she… I think Rita Skeeter might have been the last witch who saw her alive.”

Dumbledore nodded in understanding before putting a comforting arm around Harry. For a while, they sat in silence.

“You know, professor,” Harry confessed, “I felt so… stupid. There are so many things I should have asked you about, and I never did. I understood it later. During the Horcrux hunt, Lupin warned me I’d encounter magic I’d never seen before, and he was right.”

The embrace tightened a little, though it was nothing if not gentle.

“I have no secrets from you any more, Harry. I shouldn’t have had any in the first place. If I could change the past, I would. Ask me anything you wish.”

It was Harry’s turn to nod. “Why did my wand destroy the one Voldemort borrowed? I never understood this.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if this phenomenon occurred once in an eternity,” the headmaster mused. “On the night Voldemort recovered his body and duelled you—on the night your wands joined in that most extraordinary of rituals—I believe your wand, pushed to its limits and victorious all at once, absorbed a part of his essence. Later on, you were forced to face him again, and it recognised his magic, which was both familiar and inimical in nature. I could not tell you how and why it happened—I doubt Ollivander himself has ever heard of such a case. All I can surmise is that it regurgitated some of that deadly power, blended with your courage and skill, back at Voldemort. No borrowed wand could have withstood such an attack.”

“My wand absorbed some of Voldemort’s powers?” Harry exclaimed. “But if it became so powerful, how come Hermione broke it?”

“Its new power would have been directed against Voldemort alone. It shared his essence, his rage, his determination, and thus would respond to his presence. But in every other regard, it remained the same as it had been.”

This made sense.

“What about the Elder Wand?” Harry went on. “Am I its owner now?”

Dumbledore’s smile was one of joy. “Voldemort may have it in his possession, but its allegiance belongs to you.”

“And I also have the Stone and the Cloak…” A new insight dawned on Harry. “This is why you took it back then, isn’t it, professor? After all those years, you realised the Cloak was one of the Hallows.”

The old wizard’s expression sobered. “I always suspected so but could not be completely certain until your father showed it to me. I borrowed it out of curiosity, to examine it and share my findings with Gellert. The Cloak is the Lightest among the Hallows; I believe Ignotus Peverell may have been a shade more benevolent than his brothers. As you know, I never had the chance to return it to your father. If I had never borrowed it, it could have…” His voice trailed away, defeated.

Harry, however, shook his head. “It wouldn’t have saved them; it happened too fast. Besides, if the Hallows choose their allegiance, the Cloak must have worked for my dad, and he’d never have stayed hidden while my mum and I were in danger. I’m glad you took it, professor. At least, Voldemort couldn’t take it instead.”

Another question crossed his mind.

“And the Stone? When you found it later, did you also try to examine it but weren’t counting on the heavy protection around the Horcrux?”

“I once again underestimated Voldemort,” Dumbledore admitted with a nod. “He had spent years travelling around the world and experimenting with the most dangerous kinds of magic. The protection he placed on the ring after turning it into a Horcrux resembled a curse once practised in French Polynesia. When I released the ring from its concealment, a powerful compulsion took hold of me. Like a puppet steered by its master, I grasped the Horcrux and slid it on my finger, setting the curse in motion. No counter-incantation I could think of made any difference: the curse was spreading, and I was unable to reclaim control over my limbs. A spell occurred to me at last—seconds, perhaps, before it was too late. It halted the magic for long enough to permit the destruction of the Horcrux.”

Harry had listened to the story in horror.

“I’m sorry, professor,” he whispered.

While he realised this curse had been the product of Voldemort’s malice, he could not help but feel it was on a par with the Peverells’ brand of magic. The Hallows seemed _evil_ : one way or another, the journey towards them led to disasters, pain, and despair. Now they had been handed down to him as the best protection imaginable. But at what cost?

“So what should I do, sir?” he asked in response to his thoughts. “Obtaining these objects has caused so many horrors, and now they’re mine. Should I give them up? _Can_ I give them up?”

“Only you can decide whether to use them,” Dumbledore said earnestly. “They can help you defeat Voldemort; afterwards, you don’t have to keep them unless you wish to. At the very least, there is no harm in keeping the Cloak—it has always been yours.”

“And… do I really have a choice in regards to Voldemort? Who else will defeat him if not me? And…”

Harry glanced around the pristine King’s Cross station. As if to reflect his spirits, it had almost cleared of mist. Trains could be discerned in the distance, ready to be boarded. The ugly remains of Voldemort’s mangled soul still whimpered beneath the bench, but the sound no longer troubled Harry. He turned back towards Dumbledore, fully at peace for the first time. It felt nice to have a choice. All he needed was… permission, for the lack of a better term.

“You have a choice,” the headmaster assured him. “If you go back, I am certain you will find the situation to your advantage. If you would rather move on, your friends will take over. But the longer you stay in the In-between, the more difficult it will be to leave. This place possesses an allure. Some souls”—his eyes strayed to the mutilated creature—“stay trapped here forever because they cannot leave. Not you, Harry.”

The boy nodded. He could see the trains shimmering invitingly amid the last wisps of the golden fog, though there was no sun to be spotted through the glass ceiling. Curiously, he recalled the very first—and last before now—personal conversation he had ever had with Dumbledore. When he had first seen his family in the Mirror of Erised, the headmaster had come to break the Mirror’s terrible spell. On that occasion, he had asked Dumbledore a rather personal question, which had remained unanswered. As odd as it was, he could not resist. Perhaps, this time, he would find out the truth.

“What about you, sir?” he inquired. “You don’t have the option of going back. Where will you go? To the place you saw in the Mirror of Erised?”

Dumbledore beamed at him, moved to his core.

“There is a place in the mountains where it’s always summer. Gellert and I feel at peace there, though we often venture out to visit the others. My vision in the Mirror was similar: the two of us, and Ariana, in a harmonious world.”

“He tried to protect you, you know,” Harry said suddenly. “I saw it through _his_ eyes.” For a second, he paused, wondering whether he would be scolded for not having closed his mind to Voldemort. When no reproach came, he resumed, for it was important to convey. “He didn’t want Voldemort to disturb your tomb, so he lied about the Elder Wand.”

“That is what he would do.” Dumbledore smiled. “Thank you for telling me, Harry. So you saw him during his last moments. I do believe you would have liked each other. He would have understood exactly what it felt like to be gaped at and admired without rest.”

“Not really admired, lately,” Harry shrugged, a little amused. In truth, the public opinion of him would always sway from one extreme to the other.

Then he grew serious and voiced what he may never have done so openly before.

“I’m afraid, professor—of going back, that is. It’s good here.”

The station was peaceful and warm, far removed from the suffering and agitation he had endured.

“You can stay for a while. Eventually, you will need to make a choice. You have always longed to be with your family. But you have a family back there, and no matter what happens, you friends and loved ones will stand by your side.”

Harry gazed deep into the piercing blue eyes. He knew Dumbledore was right.

“But we’ll meet again?”

“I promise.” They stood up, and the older wizard pulled him into an affectionate embrace. “When the time comes, I will be right here to meet you.”

A lump was rising in Harry’s throat—not tears, not really; rather a thousand emotions he could not suppress. All his questions had been answered, and there was nothing left to add. It was time to say goodbye.

With one last smile, Dumbledore withdrew. The mist shifted around him as he walked away, and then it parted to reveal a wondrous sight. Where an archway had towered over a foggy expanse, Harry now saw a sunlit valley nestled between mountains. It was fresh and green and covered in spring flowers. Dumbledore turned around. Harry could have blinked; he was not certain. All he knew was that he was no longer looking at his elderly headmaster but at a young man not a day older than himself. His features were smooth and gentle, his shoulder-length hair auburn; only, there was no mistaking those pensive sky-blue eyes. The youth nodded in encouragement. A heartbeat later, the swirling mist covered him from view.

Harry closed his eyes. Nothing would have been more blissful than following Dumbledore’s example. If he glanced at the trains now, he would be lost. Instead, he forced himself to think of Ron and Hermione, of Neville and Luna, of the Hogwarts castle, his home. He knew what he had to do; the only matter was summoning the courage. An absurd image formed in his mind—diving into icy water. It could not be more difficult than this. He drew a deep breath.


End file.
